


Widojest Week 2019

by Jade_Sabre



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Widojest Week, a few prompts are still missing and I will remove this tag when they're all filled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 20:50:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Sabre/pseuds/Jade_Sabre
Summary: My collection of ficlets for the first-ever Widojest Week, mostly ranging from "only mildly sad" to "why, Jade, why."





	1. dance

**Author's Note:**

> It has been so wonderful and wild to go from "is there anyone else on the internet who saw them shake hands the way I did" to our VERY FIRST SHIP WEEK and I have enjoyed every minute of it.
> 
> Finally getting these over to AO3! For the ones that don't have their own fill I have a half-written fic for each of them that I'll hopefully be finishing up in the next month or so. Hope you enjoy!

Jester bursts into the room in a riot of noise and color and movement that startles him out of himself, as she always does. Always, she jostles the thoughts and broodings and worry and _sense_ right out of his head; always, he finds himself in a moment of _being_, and in this case _being_ simply means _enraptured_, utterly caught up in all she is.  
  
And usually it’s painful, being forced out of himself, _being_ with her as she strives to make the best of a bad situation, to make him and everyone else (and even herself) believe that everything isn’t so bad, that it’ll be okay, watching her work so hard to lift them all up at the expense of her own doubts and worries and fears. In those moments he always wants to—help—to shoulder the burden or simply tell her to lay it down—but he can’t and he knows it and anyway, to do so in front of everyone would be madness and worse still would undermine the entire endeavor. In those moments he can only smile back in shared pain; that she appreciates the smiles, appreciates the lie, only makes him feel worse.  
  
But now—_now_—oh, she’s excited about _clothes_, of all things, waltzing into the room where they’ve been waiting for her and Yasha and announcing that everyone _must_ look at her new pretty things, doesn’t she look so Xhorhasian now, as if he could look away. She swirls and twirls in her new skirt and tosses her head, twisting her arms this way and that, dancing in sheer delight—  
  
she is _happy_, truly, deeply, happy, and he cannot help but smile at the beauty of it, smile at her delight, smile in the face of all the feelings welling up in all the spaces left empty when she drives everything else from his head. She catches his eye and the fierce grin softens, her eyes crinkling as his smile grows wider, happy that he’s happy that she’s happy but mostly just _happy_, and for a moment he is—happy, too.  
  
How long has it been? he wonders. How long has it been since the last time she was simply happy, since she smiled at the rest of them without a shadow of care in her eyes, since she spun around in total security, heedless of any nearby danger because there _was_ none to heed? How long since her joy has been more than a façade of forced cheer, determined to do her part, that no one should suffer on _her_ account—  
  
The smile is gone from his face and he cannot look at her without _guilt_—but he cannot look away for long—cannot help but snatch glimpses of her joy and store them for whatever dark days lie ahead, for whatever horrible thing they will end up dragging each other into next. Cannot help checking to make sure she is still smiling—someone is speaking to them, and for a moment her smile wobbles, and even as he adjusts himself to this new threat he’s watching her just in case—  
  
The _Shadowhand_, and her smiles blossoms again and he immediately straightens, a thousand thousand possibilities crowding his mind again, crowding out the guilt and the sorrow and the worry and leaving only room for calculations in his mind—an _abode_, a home, a shelter, a base, not totally safe but better, yes, better than the inn, and if one den looks so favorably upon them then perhaps the others will be equally willing to curry favor and—  
  
Jester dances past him towards the stairs, and all he can do is turn his head and watch her go and _be_. At his core he is a horrible, rotten thing, but in these moments of being—as her hair swishes back and forth and her tail twitches a sassy farewell—he is who he is and who he is _could be_—  
  
nothing, he tells himself as she disappears from view. Nothing at all.


	2. healing

A paper cut is not, in the grand scheme of things, the worst injury Caleb has ever received.  
  
Without prompting his brain begins compiling a list: _burned fingertips; hit over the head with an axe hilt; broken arm; other broken bones; crystal shards left under the skin on multiple occasions; burned appendages; almost devoured by monsters; burned face; stab wounds [multiple]; almost devoured by monsters with poisonous saliva; literally stabbed through the chest by Yasha that one [several] time[s]_.  
  
The list continues and he’s not quite sure he’s ranked everything in the proper order (was walking across hot coals better or worse than having his fingers smashed and then still having to cast as the bone shards jumbled against each other and pierced through his skin?) (obvious, Widogast, but it had been a _very_ long walk) and in the meantime he moves his bleeding finger away from his spellbook so as not to sully his half-finished copy of Transportation Circle. In the process he nearly drips blood on the book Essek has lent him from which he is copying the spell, which would probably be an even worse offense. Worse than he’s already committed (don’t forget the time Mother cut his ear while trying to trim his hair) (or the first time he cut himself shaving), given that he’d received the paper cut from said book whilst trying to flatten the pages so that he could see the full glyph more clearly.  
  
His attempt hadn’t worked; the pages still fluff up, occasionally flipping of their own accord, and so while he sucks on his injured finger he reaches out with his right hand to give it one more try—  
  
The book slams shut on his hand and that should not hurt nearly so much as it does (definitely more than stubbing his toe on the threshold of his room at the asylum, though he did that _every single day_). “All right, all right,” he tells the book, “_sorry_.”  
  
The book does not accept this apology, or at least whatever enchantment is on it doesn’t deign to release his hand, so finally he tries to tug it free. He is mildly thankful that no one else is present to witness what is no doubt a tragicomical affair, as he has to make three attempts before finally succeeding in dragging his fingers from its grasp, only to receive papercuts on every fingertip as they leave the pages.  
  
“_Schiesse_,” he says, scowling at the book and his hand—his writing hand, and now he can’t even finish copying the spell, though the book is still firmly closed and that doesn’t bode well either.  
  
“Oh Caleb,” says a voice to his left, and for a moment he’s so startled to realize he sat with his back to the door that he doesn’t even notice who’s speaking. He retraces his steps as the voice keeps talking: received spellbook from messenger at the front door, raced up to his room, sat at the desk, decided the desk didn’t have enough room, shoved everything out of the middle of the room, plopped down—and not _once_ did he think of the door. He didn’t even set his Alarm. He is _mad_.  
  
And his fingers hurt like _hell _(not as bad as all those times Beau has punched him in the shoulder) (but definitely worse than all those times Frumpkin has caught him with his claws) (he may be misranking that one due to personal bias) (but if life has taught him anything, pain is subjective and he loves his cat).  
  
A blue hand waves in front of his face and he is sitting on the floor once again, blinking. “I _said_, are you in trouble?”  
  
“Jester,” he says, more to ground himself than anything else, though as he realizes he’s said _her_ name he isn’t so much grounded as he is sinking through to the next floor down. “I, ah—”  
  
“Because I don’t know,” she continues, and he risks glancing at her out of the corner of his eye to where she stands beside him, looming over him, her hands on her hips, “but I _think_ I just watched you wrestle a book. And lose.”  
  
He closes his eyes and winces. “I did not lose.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” she says.  
  
“Can I help you?” he asks, rude and abrupt, and he wishes he wasn’t, doesn’t know how else to be, and his fingers _really shouldn’t hurt this much _(not nearly as bad as falling face-first into the stinging nettles by Astrid’s house) (definitely worse than her fingernails digging into his hand as she watched her parents choke and die).  
  
“Well, I had a question for you,” she says, and finally she plops down near him, not quite across but not quite next to him either, crossed knee to his crossed knee. She’s wearing one of her new dresses, the fabric still unfamiliar and strange to him. Then again, his own knee looks like a stranger to him as well. “But I think maybe now _you_ need _my_ help.”  
  
“Really I am quite—”  
  
“Caleb,” she says, dragging out that first syllable in a way that still renders him as helpless now as he was the first time he heard it, “let me see your hand.”  
  
“It’s just a paper cut,” he says, reluctantly turning his hand palm-up in his lap, his fingers curling in a bit, tiny drops of blood welling up along the center of each fingertip. “I have had worse.”  
  
She _tsks_ at him, propping her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands as she leans forward to get a better look. “That’s a _lot_ of paper cuts, Caleb,” she says, as if she’d sensed him marshaling his defenses against her and decided to put him in his place. Ridiculous, as she certainly has no idea—  
  
“It’s fine,” he says, clenching and unclenching his fist. “See? No harm done.”  
  
“_Ca_leb,” she says, and he might as well be under _Charm Person_ at this point and be done with it, “I don’t mean this in a bad way, but, like, you’re _so_ weak, okay? You’re like a little…like a grape. Really squishy. Easy to smush.” She demonstrates with her thumb and forefinger, her chin still resting in her other hand. “How many paper cuts can you actually take before they do you in?”  
  
“I—”  
  
“Don’t try to deny it. You were literally complaining about it, like, yesterday. When you took the ring from Yasha?”  
  
“Technically she never had it in the first—”  
  
“Just give me your hand.”  
  
He pauses, looks down at his fingers, away from her mock-serious stare, and thinks—unless she has been dicking around all morning with low-level magic—Healing Word would be more than enough to take care of this—  
  
“Oh,” he says awkwardly, stuck some place between polite refusal and desperately hopelessly helplessly wanting to give in, “don’t you have some—”  
  
He stops as she reaches out, cupping her hands and stopping them just shy of his, hovering beneath it as best she can. He’s staring at her and she’s looking at his hands as she says, quietly, “If it’s because of your scars or something I can be careful if I need to, or—”  
  
“Oh,” he says, and he drops his hand into hers.  
  
Without prompting, his brain begins compiling a list: _warm bread on a winter’s morning; lying in a freshly mowed field with the sun on his face; petting Frumpkin for the first time; his father’s hand on his shoulder; the first bath after the asylum; donning his first uniform at the Academy; their first night at the Pillow Trove Inn, sleeping on real sheets; listening to the Ruby of the Sea sing; holding Astrid’s hand; petting Frumpkin for the first time, the second time_.  
  
This doesn’t quite top the list, but it comes surprisingly—no, _dangerously_—unwantedly—blessedly close.  
  
She doesn’t have to be holding his hand, but she is, and it’s nothing like grabbing hands in a pitch-black cavern and holding on for dear life—or maybe it is, just a little. One of her hands cups his, her fingers supporting his, while her other hand draws a circle on his palm for what he is _sure_ is no particular reason. He’s seen her cast Cure Wounds dozens of times and at no point in time has she ever drawn a circle on anyone else, so clearly she’s simply trying to drive him mad. She’d be so disappointed to know she is too late.  
  
But he doesn’t feel mad (_divine restoration flowing through his veins, clearing his head_). He feels—oh, she has weakened him—warm, from the top of his head to his numbing toes, a warmth that blooms into heat along all the places she’s touching him—he is vaguely surprised his hand hasn’t burst into flame, is vaguely holding his magic close to his heart, just in case. But _gentle_, too, not just the feathery brush of her fingers but his hand in hers as if he in turn rests too lightly against her, but she is gentle out of caution and he is gentle out of fear. He could hurt her. Badly. Already has, letting her get this close—_too_ close—  
  
“Ah,” he says, and his voice lodges in his throat and her eyes flick up to laugh at him and now he’s hot all over, embarrassed and longing and so, so lost, “did you have a spell you were going to or…?”  
  
“Oh,” she said, “yes, I was just reading your palm.”  
  
He snorts. “Spare me.”  
  
“No! You have a very nice palm,” she says, and then she turns his hand over and if he slid his fingers between hers they would be holding hands but she is looking at the scars (his brain unhelpfully thinks _Astrid’s lips, sealing the wounds_ and not now, not _now_, this is a far, far better thing) and he has—nothing to hide, he said, and even in this moment, amidst the confusion and heat and impatience and lingering desire to crawl under his bed and hide—even now, it still rings true.  
  
As true as any of his lies, at any rate.  
  
He’s been quiet for entirely too long and all his energy is focused on _not holding her hand_ and so when she looks up at him again he is entirely unprepared for the fondness in her eyes. “All better,” she says, pressing her fingertips against his, laying her hand palm-to-palm against his, and the tiniest spark of green light passes between them, and—  
  
And he stares at her, wide-eyed and nervous, attempting to convey without providing any details how desperately, dangerously close he is to holding her hand, to using his other hand to cup her cheek and draw her to him, to opening his mouth and hiding _nothing_, to ruining what precious little fragile joy they have together and really it’d only be all he deserves in the first place—  
  
She slips her fingers between his and gives his hand a squeeze (_holding his first book in his hands_) (_his mother’s hugs_) and then she lets it go. “Now,” she says, reaching for Essek’s book and either missing or ignoring the fact that she’s reduced him to little more than shocked idiocy, “let’s see what your problem is.”  
  
She strokes one finger along the spine, clucking to it as she does to Nugget, and as much as he loves books he has never particularly wanted to _be_ one before this moment. “Come on, he’s sorry,” she says, “you heard him say so, whatever he did I’m sure he didn’t mean it, he’ll behave. He’s a really powerful wizard, you know, but kind of delicate so,” and she lowers her voice and his cheeks are probably purple at this point and he wishes she was whispering in _his_ ear, “you know, if you could do me a favor and be gentle with him, that’d be great. He’s really great! Just, you know, squishy. Pretty please? For me?”  
  
As if the book suffers from the same condition Caleb does, its pages flutter open, coming to rest on the Transportation Circle he’d been copying. “There you go!” she says happily, and when she sets it on the ground, it flattens its pages even further, almost groveling. “You just have to be _nice_ to it, honestly, Caleb.”  
  
If she would _stop saying his name_ he’d be able to _think_ of—something to say, at the very least, something better than a stuttered, “_Ja_, well, uh, thank you.”  
  
“I do have the magic touch,” she says with a careless shrug of her shoulders, tossing her hair to the side, and he can only smile and wince at the same time. “I do have a question for you but it can wait until you’re finished I guess. Come find me when you’re done?”  
  
He clears his throat again. “I—”  
  
“I’ll probably be up in the tree house.”  
  
“All—”  
  
“Unless I find more symbols of the Luxon to deface,” she says, and he grins without thinking, and she grins back, and it’s—somewhere between _casting his first Firebolt_ and _seeing the ocean_, and that’s—amazing.  
  
“I will do my best,” he says, and it’s enough to keep her grinning.  
  
“Well,” she says, “tootles!” and then she’s gone, as abruptly as she arrived.  
  
He presses his fingertips together, feels the smooth skin, the flicker of magical energy always waiting; and then he looks at his spellbook, and gets back to work.


	3. kissing as a distraction (mischief)

Until further notice, please enjoy ["some overwhelming question,"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16958811) since I really don't think I'll ever be able to write a kissing-as-a-distraction fic that tops that one. <3


	4. fairytale

another one that's on its way! have a snippet:  
  
Jester wonders sometimes about True Love’s Kiss.  
  
She’s not an idiot. She’s not a child. And while she’d never call her mother a _whore_ it’s not like she doesn’t know there’s all sorts of kinds of kisses where people kiss each other and it’s nothing, or it’s just a little thing, or it’s a one-time thing and afterwards life goes on and everything’s more or less the same.  
  
But just because she knows all this doesn’t rule out the possibility of True Love’s Kiss. Even the fact that her mother kissed her father and thought it was True Love and maybe it wasn’t doesn’t rule it out, though it does—complicate things. True Love, by definition, wouldn’t fade over time. Or would it? True Love is eternal, but not necessarily unchanging. It maybe could diminish, given time—except that it’s timeless and if it diminishes then maybe it can get so small as to be infinitesimal and how sad would _that_ be, to have your True Love reduced to a ghost of a feeling you remember from long ago? And it’s _True Love_, so it’s not like you could have other loves, maybe. Or maybe you could, but you wouldn’t ever really be able to _enjoy_ them, knowing you had The One and let it smolder into almost nothing.  
  
(Almost nothing is barely something, though; there’s always hope.)  
  
Either way she’s almost not sold on True Love except for how much she _wants_ it to be real, wants it perhaps because of how intimately she knows how many other kinds of love there are. But the real deciding factor is that you can’t have True Love’s Kiss without True Love, so it must be real.  


* * *

  
(more to come!)


	5. there's only one bed OR alternate universe

another snippet:  
  
_How_ they ended up in a drow’s pleasure palace was a story for another time. What mattered at this particular moment was that they’d spent the whole day battling various demons for said drow’s amusement, they were exhausted, they were scantily clad, and there was only one bed.  
  
Granted, it was a very _large_ bed. But they were _very_ scantily clad, and there were also six of them, seven if she counted Frumpkin, which Caleb definitely was, given the way he was holding his cat in his lap and stroking its head, staring at some middle distance only he could see. Anyway, it was a _large_ bed, but not _that_ large, and they were exhausted, and though for now everyone was sitting around the edge of it, they definitely couldn’t _sleep_ like that. Cuddling loomed in their future, and Jester, for one, was looking forward to it.

* * *

(more to come!)


	6. fire & ice

The light in the cave is dim, too dim for Caleb to see much farther the thirty-foot circle that his friends form as they hold their positions, waiting. Ten feet across from him Beau stands in the middle of the room, taking a pose he vaguely knows allows her to attack or defend at will. Fjord stands to her left, falchion at the ready, breathing heavily as he turns his head this way and that; Caduceus is next, his long nose scrunched as his brow furrows and he sniffs the air, no doubt seeking sulfur. Caleb lives on sulfur, barely notices the rotten eggs anymore, hopes he’s not throwing off the firbolg’s search.   
  
He himself squints up in the darkness, calculating angles, trying to guess how far and how fast the demon can fly before it reappears again—useless; he can’t even see the ceiling. Beside him Nott shifts from one foot to the other, no doubt trying to decide if she has time to take another swig from her flask before the next attack, her crossbow at a wobbly ready. He has a Firebolt tucked away, just in case, fire against a demon as if he has learned _nothing_—worse than useless. He hates waiting. He hates being scared out of his mind, and he’s not, he shouldn’t be, this isn’t nearly as bad as—other things, just one lousy demon who carries a wicked sword and can cast Invisibility and fly away, just a distraction, just one obstacle in their path—but he doubts himself, doubts the path they’re on, wishes that for a _moment_ they could find something to fight that didn’t remind them of—  
  
On his left Jester sniffs, and he wonders if she’s thinking of Yasha too, not that he’s thinking of Yasha (not that he’s ever _not_ thinking of Yasha, just as he’s never _not_ thinking of Astrid and Eodwulf and his parents and Yeza and Luc and Marion Lavorre and Dairon and the Bright Queen and every person he’s ever met, every person he’s ever failed, every person depending on his useless worthless self to do something _right_ for a change), just that they’re in the dark in a cave and they’re fighting a demon and she is sensitive to these things. Selfishly he is glad she is beside him. Selfishly he wants to let the Firebolt drop so that he can grab her hand and give it a squeeze, let her know she is not alone in her thoughts but that also she can—  
  
For a moment he is looking at Jester’s back as she faces away from him, studying the cave wall next to them; and then he is looking at two enormous wings as the demon reappears in his face and plunges its sword into Jester’s back.  
  
It flies up and away as it rips the sword back out and Caleb sees her as if outlined in lighting: the arch of her back, the whip of her tail, the tense of her suddenly outstretched arms, the tips of her horns as she throws her head back in pain. Her scream reaches him from a distance and he is turning slowly, too slowly, his Firebolt going wide as the others unleash the attacks they’ve been holding, bolts and blasts and a Sacred Flame and Beau’s frustrated cry and the fiend flies up, up to the edge of his vision.  
  
He looks up and sees yellow eyes and jagged teeth in a fierce grin and blood, dripping from a sword, and then Jester stumbles against him and her bleeding back presses against his chest. Her blood is cool like the stream by his parents’ house where he used to wash up after a hard, dusty day’s work; and it flows against him just as easily, _too_ easily, the wicked blade holding a bleeding edge and she will lose consciousness soon and his arm is around her, holding her up, and her name is on his lips as he stares at the demon and _thinks_—  
  
The skin of her temple is cool and smooth against his jaw as he shifts her enough to get both arms around her, to smear the bat guano and sulfur together as he utters the incantation and suddenly her voice is beneath his, beside his, twining around it in a language all her own (Infernal, he knows it’s Infernal) as her back arches again, against him, and together they throw their hands out—  
  
The Fireball explodes behind the fiend and the ice shards strike it in front and for a moment the whole cave is brilliant and bright and burning, the floor at their feet twinkling with the scattered flames of so many crystals reflecting so much light. He closes his eyes and imagines the light dancing across her face even as it fades; tightens his arms around her; feels the hard shallow labor of her breath; and his lips are at her temple and if he presses a kiss to her skin then it is as fleeting as the last flicker of a dying candle, too brief to illumine anything else.  
  
(But a dying fire still burns and he is as hot as she is cold and he wonders if—)  
  
A thick, squelching smear of a _smack_ marks the demon’s demise as its body hits the floor, fizzling into so much goo, and just like that the encounter is over, their foe defeated, and the cave settles into silence and relative safety.  
  
Jester does not step away.  
  
The others are rushing towards them—towards _her_—Nott is already at his feet—but Jester hooks her hands over his arms as he tightens them around her and for a moment they are alone in the silence and relative safety. Her blood soaks through his clothes, is slick and cool against his skin, and she tilts her head back as he lowers his chin and they are cheek-to-cheek and breathing together and holding each other and selfishly he wants—and uselessly he _knows_, and his arms start to go slack—  
  
“I don’t know, Caleb,” she says, her voice light and a little dreamy, “I think we make a pretty good team.”  
  
His grip on her tightens until he can feel the ripped edges of her skin through the soaked shirt on his chest, the play of her muscles as she shifts, leans into him just as hard, and he can feel the collapse of her lungs as her breath escapes in a hiss of pain and in that moment he releases her, panicked, _she hurts_ no _that hurt_ no _he hurt her_ _he_ hurt her (of _course_ he hurt her he was always going to hurt her they were always going to end like this—)  
  
She falls against him anyway, managing a half-turn so she can throw one arm over his shoulder, and the others arrive but he has eyes only for her as she leans into him again, forcing him to stumble back until he hits the cave wall. Caduceus yelps a bit as she slips out of his grasp and then the firbolg’s hands slam into her back, pushing her harder into Caleb and Caleb harder into the wall and he is helpless to do anything but return her stare, her violet eyes little more than sparks as the light from Caduceus’s healing spell casts her face in shadow.  
  
He feels the tightness in her body ease—her whole body, _schiesse_, he has nowhere to hide—and then she smiles up at him and she should not do that, not when she is so close, not when he is so relieved she is all right, not when everyone else is standing around them and especially not at _him_ because _he is who he is_ and she _should not_ and he should not _let_ her—  
  
But Jester is strong, and Jester is stubborn, and her free hand rises and her fingers brush against her temple and then reach across and brush his, trail down his cheek as she lets her hand fall again; and Jester _knows_, and smiles at him anyway.  
  
(She cannot know—must not truly realize—neither how awful he is nor how he _aches_ at the sight of the playful curve of her lips and how it takes all his strength not to put his hands on her and—and—)  
  
“_Ja_,” he manages, the wrong response but he can barely think and her smile only grows and he feels his face get stuck between a thousand thoughts and feelings and he won’t smile back but he can’t frown, either, can only finish, “I guess we do.”  
  
Her smile lights the room brighter than any spell he could ever possibly hope to learn in this lifetime, or any other; and then the voices of the others crowd in around him, pulling them apart, and without her against him his sodden clothes are _cold_ and beneath them his skin is burning, his cheeks aflame, and as she turns away to answer Beau her tail slips along his arm, as if she guesses—  
  
And without really thinking he somehow manages to snag the tip of it, just enough to give it a little tweak, and it curls away from him, curls against her, and over her shoulder she raises an eyebrow at him and he is pleased to see that in spite of the cool confidence of that raised eyebrow her eyes are wide and her cheeks are the deep indigo that passes for her blush.  
  
At least, he thinks (of Astrid and Eodwulf and Marion and Yeza and his parents and oh, they would have liked her)—at least, he shouldn’t (he knows, he _knows_, and her blood is still cool against his skin)—and when she turns away again he doesn’t have the strength to move from where he stands until Nott tugs on his hand and drags him after the rest of them—at least, and when they catch up she’s waiting for him with another smile, and a hand to help him through the darkness—  
  
at least, they’re in this together. Alone, he can only do so much (her hand closes around his, _nice to meet you, Caleb_, and Nott holds his other hand behind); together, they just might make it out alive.


	7. “Are you secretly in love with me?”/Zone of Truth

Zone of Truth version is coming, but for "Are you secretly in love with me?" (which honestly I could write variations on a theme of all day long, had I but world enough and time) please enjoy ["waiting for the sunlight,"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722211) NOW WITH [BONUS PODFIC](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19801054) PLEASE GO LISTEN TO IT IT'S SO GOOD Y'ALL THEY KILLED IT.


End file.
